Andrew Swanston - The King's Return

He was still studying her work when the artist herself, brown hair tumbling on her shoulders and blue eyes smiling, entered the room. ‘This is a pleasant surprise, Thomas. I have few visitors.’ He turned and returned the smile. Her hand went to her mouth. ‘Oh. What has happened to your face?’

‘An accident, nothing more.’

Madeleine looked unconvinced. ‘If you say so, Thomas. And I see your visit is not a social one. Would you like me to return the journal to Lady Babb?’

‘That would be kind. Apart from an unwise investment, I have learned little about him.’ Thomas hesitated. ‘I had wondered also if you would care for a stroll in St James’s Park. We could inspect the king’s works there.’

Madeleine smiled. ‘A most agreeable idea. I hear the king’s menagerie is growing daily and he often walks there himself. I’ll fetch my hat and we’ll be off.’

The route from Fleet Street to St James’s Park took them along the Strand to Charing Cross, and then south down King Street to Westminster Hall, where they turned right past the Abbey and into the park. They passed Somerset House, Worcester House, and the king’s palace at Whitehall.

‘They say there are so many rooms and passages in Whitehall Palace,’ said Madeleine, gazing at it, ‘that there are men and women wandering about unable to find a way out. Some have even died of starvation, their bodies unfound for years.’

‘Do they now?’ asked Thomas. ‘Then let’s hope the king is always accompanied by a reliable guide. I doubt the country wants another coronation just yet.’

‘No. Especially not until His Majesty has a legitimate heir. His brother James, I fear, would command little respect.’

‘James has not proved a good name for the king of England. The only one so far was Scottish, preferred boys to girls and took advice from no one but God. Another might be as bad. We need another William or Henry, don’t you think?’

‘Or an Elizabeth?’

‘Indeed. Or a Queen Madeleine, perhaps.’

Madeleine pretended to be shocked. ‘Hush, Thomas. You’ll have me in the Tower for saying such a thing.’ She slipped her arm through his. ‘You will come and visit me there, won’t you?’

‘If time allows, certainly,’ replied Thomas, getting a punch on the arm for his trouble.

They strolled through the park to the canal and along the towpath beside it. They were about to turn and retrace their steps when a large party swept towards them. Both men and women were dressed at the very height of fashion – the gentlemen flamboyant in their loose shirts, skirts and voluminous trousers, feathered hats and ribbons, the ladies rather less so in muted skirts, short jackets and simple shawls. At their head was a tall man in a long black wig, swinging a walking stick as he strode along the path and accompanied by three small spaniels. His entourage were struggling to keep up with him. Six soldiers of the King’s Lifeguard marched alongside the party. Mary grabbed Thomas by the elbow and dragged him off the path. ‘Hat off, Thomas,’ she whispered, ‘and your finest bow. The king approaches.’ As the king passed them, Madeleine curtsied low and Thomas bowed low from the waist. They waited for the whole party to go by before standing upright again.

‘That was unexpected. Come to inspect his new canal, perhaps,’ said Madeleine.

‘Or his ostriches.’

‘At least he must feel he can walk freely in the park.’

‘Freely yes, but not alone.’

‘Quite. Have you noticed how the male of the human species has recently adopted the habits of his counterparts among the animals and birds?’ asked Madeleine.

Thomas asked her what she meant. ‘In nature, Thomas, or perhaps you hadn’t noticed, it is the cock pheasant and the stag who like to show off their finery. The hen and the doe are more modest in their appearance.’

‘Quite so, my dear. I fear, however, that I hardly come up to standard in that respect.’

‘Nonsense, Thomas. You look as fine as any man in the park.’

Thomas felt himself blush. ‘Even His Majesty?’

‘Especially His Majesty.’

To hide his embarrassment, Thomas changed the subject. ‘When did you come to London, Madeleine?’

‘My father died five years ago. I came the following year, as soon as the estate had been settled.’

‘Did you say that your father was a parson?’

‘He was, as Joseph’s father was. A kind man, but not the strongest. Weak in both body and mind, I suppose. He found it difficult to stand up for what he believed in and against his enemies.’

‘He had enemies? Catholics, do you mean?’

‘No, not religious enemies. There were those in the village who treated him badly.’

‘Why would they treat a country parson badly?’

‘It’s in the past, Thomas. I’d rather not talk about it,’ said Madeleine, gently squeezing his arm.

In the park an ancient, one-armed beggar stepped out from behind a tree. ‘Spare a shillin’ for an old soldier, sir,’ the old man croaked, holding out a battered hat.

He was ragged and filthy, and not wishing to provide a new home for the man’s lice and fleas, Thomas’s first instinct was to ignore the wretched fellow. To his surprise, however, Madeleine pulled a coin from her purse and dropped it into the hat. He mumbled something which might have been thanks and disappeared back behind his tree.

‘He will only drink it away,’ said Thomas as they walked back.

‘I know. It was just the shock of seeing him here among all this wealth and finery. I ignore beggars in the streets.’

‘As you should. Charity may be a virtue, but begging is too close to theft for my liking.’ Thomas paused. ‘Poverty and filth alongside wealth and extravagance. Perhaps it will always be thus.’

‘Our new king certainly has much to do if it is to change. Yet the mood of the people is for change.’

‘And they must have it. Despite the war, London is thriving. Merchants and financiers are becoming rich. Some of their wealth should be used for the common good.’

‘And how is this to be accomplished, Thomas?’ asked Madeleine, slipping her arm through his again and smiling sweetly.

‘Good Lord, madam, that is a matter far beyond the wit of a humble fellow like me. Questions I can manage, it is the answers I find difficult.’

Madeleine laughed. ‘In that, sir, I believe you to be much like most other men.’

‘And women.’

‘And women.’

‘Chandle Stoner describes himself as a philanthropist,’ said Thomas thoughtfully. ‘I wonder to whom he is philanthropic.’

‘He also describes himself as a financier, so I expect his philanthropy is chiefly to himself.’

‘Madeleine, I should never have thought you so cynical.’

‘Then you must get to know me better, Thomas.’

‘Indeed I must.’

As they walked back beside the canal, Thomas looked up. Coming towards them but some distance away were Lucy and Arthur Phillips, arm in arm and deep in conversation. They had not seen him. He quickly steered Madeleine away from the towpath and into the park. He was not ready to speak to Lucy, nor was this the time.

Within thirty minutes they were back at the little house off Fleet Street. Seated on the plain chairs in the parlour, they each took a glass of Spanish sherry brought by the housekeeper. Thomas raised his glass to Madeleine. ‘To you. May life bring you everything you wish for.’

Madeleine smiled a little sadly. ‘If it’s not too much to ask for, may it do the same for you.’

One hour passed, then two, while they talked of this and that – food, books, London, the countryside, music – carefully avoiding politics, religion and philosophy. Even Montaigne was ignored while they explored each other’s tastes. A little before five o’clock Thomas rose as if to take his leave.